Fanning the Flame (6 page)

"You have trouble sleeping?"

"Unfortunately."

"So did Lord Fenwick."

One of his eyebrows went up. "Well, he is resting quite peacefully now. "

She glanced away, swallowed against the lump in her throat. "Do you know when the funeral service is going to be held?"

His gaze found hers across the short distance between them. "Tomorrow morning at St. Katherine's."

"There are bound to be dozens of people. Perhaps if I arrived late and wore a veil, I could—"

"No. You'll have to do your grieving here. Someone might recognize you. If they do, you'll be arrested and taken straight to prison."

Jillian shivered, but she couldn't imagine not paying her respects to a man who had been like a father.

"Speaking of prison brings us to the business at hand." Adam paced over to where she sat on the sofa. "If I'm going to assume you aren't the one who shot his lordship, then we need to find out who did. To do that, we need to know why someone would want the earl dead. There is the obvious reason, of course, that Fenwick's heir will come into the title and fortune a few years prematurely."

"That would be the earl's nephew, Howard Telford. But he is already the Viscount Mayfield and as far as I know, in no immediate need of funds."

Blackwood walked over to his desk, took up the quill pen, and scratched something down on a piece of paper. "Wouldn't hurt to make certain of that."

"Even if he did need money, I can't imagine him killing his uncle." She realized she was twisting a fold of her skirt and began to smooth out the wrinkle. "But then I can't credit anyone killing a harmless old man."

"If it wasn't a matter of greed, then it had to be something else. Did Fenwick have any enemies you knew of?"

She worried her lip, trying to remember, trying to think if there was anyone in particular who might have been angry enough with the earl to want him dead.

"Let me see," she said, stalling for time, desperate to think of someone. She finally gave up and shook her head. "I realize his lordship wasn't the most popular man in London, but I can't say there were many who out-and-out loathed him."

"Come now, Miss Whitney. The earl was hardly known for his diplomacy. As I heard it, he was outspoken to a fault. There must have been any number of people he offended."

Blackwood was right, of course. Lord Fenwick often said the most outrageous things. Now he was dead. Someone had certainly been displeased with him. Her mind raced backward, searching for someone—anyone she could think of—who might have been unhappy with the earl.

"Well, as you said, Lord Fenwick often made comments that were unusually blunt. Several weeks ago, a gentleman named Barton Witherspoon came to the house demanding to see the earl. He said that if—"

A knock at the door interrupted her. Blackwood's improbable butler shoved a tea cart through the door of the study. Gold-rimmed porcelain cups and saucers rattled as he pushed it over to the leather sofa.

"Thank you, Reggie."

"Anything else, Major?"

"Not at present."

Reggie the bulldog butler closed the door and Jillian turned to the earl. "Are you on a first-name basis with all of your servants?" It amazed her, made her wonder if perhaps there was more to the man than she had thought.

"Just the ones I knew before I left the army. Will you pour, Miss Whitney?"

She did so with ease, having learned all the niceties at Mrs. Davenport's very expensive finishing school, which, she now knew, had cost her father the last of his savings.

Seating himself in the chair next to the sofa, the earl took the cup and saucer she offered, his hand large and dark against the white of the fine porcelain, and yet they were elegant hands, strong, long-boned, and lean.

"You were talking about Mr. Witherspoon," Blackwood reminded her.

"Yes . . . as I was saying, Mr. Witherspoon came to the house a couple of weeks ago. I was in Lord Fenwick's library when he walked into the study. I saw Mr. Witherspoon's face and I could tell he was furious with the earl. He said that if Lord Fenwick didn't retract what he had said at the Collingwood soiree about his daughter Hermione looking like an underfed crane, there was going to be hell to pay."

Blackwood surprised her by laughing out loud. It was such a rich, masculine sound and it transformed his face so completely, for a moment she forgot what she was going to say.

He set his teacup down in the saucer he held in one hand. "Fenwick said Hermione Witherspoon looked like an underfed crane?"

"Yes, I'm afraid he did."

He chuckled, and wings seemed to flutter in her stomach. "I'll admit the earl wasn't far off the mark," he said, "though saying so wasn't quite the thing." He looked at her, his eyes still crinkled at the corners. "The question is, do you actually believe Barton Witherspoon was angry enough to kill him?"

She wanted to say yes. She desperately wanted to find someone who might be to blame. Instead she sighed and shook her head. "No. I don't believe the man would shoot the earl for comparing his daughter to a crane."

Blackwood set his cup and saucer down on a marble-topped table and came to his feet. "If Witherspoon is the best you can do, we're going to need some help. I'll send a note to Rathmore, ask him to stop by as soon as he is available."

"Rathmore!" Jillian surged to her feet so quickly she nearly knocked her teacup off its saucer. "How do you know we can trust him? What if he goes to the authorities? What if—"

"Apparently I forgot to mention Rathmore went with me to Lord Fenwick's house."

"Rathmore went with you?"

"He's known the earl for quite some years. It was the easiest way to get in."

She swallowed, her eyes flicking toward the door as if the constable's men might burst through at any moment.

"You needn't worry. The duke is completely trustworthy. Perhaps between the two of you, you can come up with something that will help."

But Jillian remained uneasy. Dear God, she would be putting her very life in Rathmore's hands.

Blackwood must have sensed her fears, for he reached out and caught her chin. "If you want my help, Miss Whitney, you'll have to do as I say." She bit down on her lip. "Trust me, Jillian. I have your best interest at heart."

She wanted to believe him. He was the only one willing to help her. She nodded very faintly.

"Good. In the meantime, I'll speak to Howard Telford and the late earl's daughter-in-law, Madeleine. And I'm hiring a runner. In fact, I've an appointment in Bow Street this afternoon."

Jillian's stomach tightened. "But that is bound to be expensive. I haven't a farthing. How shall I ever repay you?"

Blackwood casually started walking toward the door. "You needn't worry." He cast an unreadable glance over his shoulder as he stepped out into the hall. "I'm sure we'll work out something."

Jillian awakened early the following morning, the day of Lord Fenwick's funeral. She had spent a restless night thinking about him, remembering the awful way he had died and how much she had come to love him. She needed to be there—or at least somewhere nearby—when he was laid to rest.

The funeral at St. Katherine's was scheduled to take place at ten o'clock that morning, she had read in the
Evening Post,
but as Lord Blackwood had rightly said, she couldn't possibly attend. Both Madeleine Telford, the earl's daughter-in-law; and his nephew, Howard; would be among the mourners, not to mention myriad other
ton
members, many of whom she had met.

Which meant, as his lordship had said, there was every chance she would be spotted the moment she stepped inside the church.

But a service would take place in the graveyard as well, and there she could pay her respects from a place among the headstones where she would not be seen.

Digging through her limited, borrowed wardrobe, Jillian chose a dove-gray gown with tiny pearl buttons up the front—the only thing vaguely suitable for a visit to a graveyard—drew on a cashmere shawl, and concealed herself in the long, hooded cloak she had worn the night of the murder. She wouldn't go near the graveside service, just remain hidden among the shadowy granite columns some distance away.

As the minutes ticked past, her nerves began to build. She checked the ormolu clock above the mantel, saw that it was time to leave, dragged in a steadying breath, and opened the door. Knowing the butler had probably been instructed not to let her leave, she carefully checked to be certain no one was about. The halls were empty, just a few chambermaids working in one of the guest rooms at the opposite end of the wing.

Jillian stepped into the corridor, quietly closed the door, and headed for the servants' stairs at the rear of the town house.

No one was in the hall when she reached the bottom of the narrow staircase. With a cautious glance around, she stepped out of the shadows and hurried for the door. She had almost made it when strong fingers clamped around her wrist, halting her flight and spinning her around. Her face went pale at the dark look on Blackwood's face.

"Going somewhere?"

Dear God, she thought he had already left for the service! Jillian lifted her chin and hoped it didn't tremble. "I am on my way to his lordship's funeral. I am honor-bound to pay my respects."

His eyes ran over her and she realized he thought she might be running away.

"Lord Fenwick was my dearest friend," she continued, trying to make him understand. "More than a friend. I owe him at least this much."

His features seemed to harden even more. "Whatever your
friendship
with the earl, it isn't worth being imprisoned."

A chill feathered down her spine. "I'm not going into the church, only the graveyard. I'll stay in the distance, pretend to be visiting another grave, but I have to be there to bid him farewell." She realized he still held onto her wrist and beneath his hand her skin began to tingle.

"I appreciate your feelings in the matter, but the fact remains, you're not going. The risk is simply too great."

"The risk is mine to take, not yours, and at any rate, why should you care? I still don't understand why you are helping me."

He shrugged those wide shoulders. "Perhaps I'm not sure either. Whatever the reason, it appears as though I am, and as long as that is the case, I won't let you foolishly put yourself in danger."

Angry heat rushed into her cheeks. What he thought of as foolish, she thought of as duty and love. Blackwood didn't move, didn't release his hold on her wrist. She could feel his iron resolve and her temper began to fade.

He was trying to keep her safe when no one else seemed to care. She should be grateful, not angry.

"If the earl was the man you believe," he said a little more gently, finally releasing his hold, "surely he would understand."

Jillian swallowed past the tightness in her throat. Perhaps he was right. The earl had loved her. He wouldn't want her life endangered because of him. Reluctantly, she nodded. "Perhaps he would."

"Come," he said, settling a hand at her waist. "I'll have Reggie fetch you a cup of tea."

With a sigh of resignation, Jillian let him guide her down the hall. Inwardly, she gave up a prayer that the earl would know she was there in spirit if not in body.

The hours dragged past. Blackwood had departed for the funeral a few minutes after their encounter. He was tense and brooding by the time he got back, giving her only a brief rendition of the service then shutting himself away in his study.

Part of her was glad. Their earlier meeting in the hall had left her nerves on edge. The evening loomed ahead, a thought that unsettled her even more. As it happened, Jillian soon discovered she would be spending the evening alone, news that should have made her happy. Instead she felt oddly disgruntled.

The devil take Blackwood,
she silently vowed in a show of temper she didn't quite understand. Determined to blot him from her thoughts, she enjoyed a light supper of vermicelli soup and lamb cutlets in a small, less extravagant salon at the rear of the town house, then left to retire to her bedchamber for the night.

Unfortunately, as she made her way toward the staircase, Blackwood appeared at the top of the stairs. Resplendent in snug black breeches, blue and silver waistcoat, and a dark blue tailcoat that perfectly fit his broad-shouldered frame, he looked impossibly handsome.

Jillian ignored the odd little clutch in her chest and stepped back into the shadows of the hall, hoping to remain out of sight.

No such luck, of course. When he reached the bottom of the staircase, Blackwood spotted her in the light of the sconces, turned, and started toward her.

"I see you are about to retire. I'm on my way out for the evening. I've instructed Maude Flynn, one of the chambermaids, to act as your lady's maid while you're here." His eyes swept over her, pausing an extra moment on the pale flesh rising above the low-cut bodice of her gown. "I know how difficult it is for a lady to undo all of those buttons by herself."

The faintly sensuous curve of his lips made her breath catch. She wished her heart would stop that infernal pounding.